


Obedience

by DuelsDuets



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:41:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6146399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuelsDuets/pseuds/DuelsDuets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She starts kissing him, nipping at his bottom lip, making it impossible for him to breathe. Winning."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
_She_ was standing there. Pleased as poison punch when The Doctor flings the doors to his Tardis open. A wolf in the hen house grin dancing on her blood-red lips. She'd applied so many layers of lipstick that she's coloured outside the lines. His eyebrows draw together in annoyance. How subtle of her.

"Oh look at you all sandy and cross. How was your little visit home?" She skips lightly around the controls, hands hovering, not touching, above them. Teasing him with what lever she might prod, or which buttons she might push.

He decides that how she knew where he was is her admission of guilt. "Was it you? Did you help them? Did you give them my confession dial?" He's cross, but he's quiet. Intent and immobile, in the wake of her fluttering. He's learned patience.

She snaps to attention at that. "Don't be slow Doctor. I maybe delightfully treacherous, but I would never help our insufferable lot." There's a bite in her words and bitterness that he remembers, utter contempt.

The Doctor knows The Master to be more of a Lucifer than a Judas. He's doubtful she still has her soul to sell. And he's tired, he'd like a minute to go by without having to yell at someone.

He nods at her, and manoeuvres the Tardis into the vortex. He purposefully takes them nowhere and sits in the jump chair with a huff. He rakes his hands through his hair and red dust sprinkles the floor beneath him. He stares at the deck plating and thinks of nothing.

Her boots enter his view. She taps out an annoyed little rhythm. "Well this is boring. Did they hurt you my little wrinkled puffin?" she mocks, and places her fingertips at his temples so gently that he barely registers her intentions and---

_Clara laughing wildly as she pulls herself back inside an airborne Tardis, the thrill of pride he felt flash at her daring, the flood of shame at enjoying her recklessness._

He feels Missy's smirk in his mind as he wrenches her hands away from him. Crushing her wrists in his grip and throwing her off balance as he recoils from the invasion.

They both wince from the sudden disconnection. A wave of brain freeze washes over him from the loss. He watches her sour expression at their mutual discomfort.

"Pathetic. Grieving over your little mayfly. As if you don't know that it always ends the same way--"

"---Don't.---"

"---Interrupt your Mistress, too true!" She yells over him. "Especially when she's so nicely teaching you a lesson you failed to learn."

"You have nothing to teach me."

"Really? Should I take you to visit the graves of all your little pets? I've been all over your timeline remember. I know when they are," She hisses.

He spins on his heel and faces the wall. He does not need this from her. He does not need her to explain his sad and cyclical history. He knows this always happens, he's lived it over, and over. Without her.

"Do you really think you could wound me deeper than I've already been wounded?" he turns but still doesn't look at her.

She starts in his direction, stops short when he won't meet her gaze. "Darling, don't tell me you need more than a day to grieve the very insignificant loss you just suffered?" She leers at him, twisting the hard lines of her face into a monstrous contortion. He's surprised this version of her didn't regenerate with fangs.

"Is this you expressing your pathetic jealousy over my pets?" He stalks towards her. "Because they can hurt me like this, because I let them, and you could never make me feel that way about you?"

He darts away from her striking arm, as he raises his own hand. The harsh crack of his palm on her cheek shoots a flare of dark satisfaction across his synapses. And he's glad that he can claim self-defence. She clutches the reddening flesh, shock blooming on her features, but she doesn't step back. She parts her lips and wets them with her tongue and steps into his personal space.

"You know how I know you're just like me?" She whispers, leaning into him, her breathe tickling his ear.

"You like watching their bright, pretty lives flash like fire crackers for your amusement." And she shoves him back into the wall, hard, knocking the breath out of him. Pinning his shoulders to the wall. He looks at her with lidded eyes as her gaze drops to his mouth. She starts kissing him, nipping at his bottom lip, making it impossible for him to breathe. Winning.

He recovers himself and forces his tongue down her throat, grabbing her hips with his hands.  
He's practically shoving her across the room. She's out of step stumbling, unused to his roughness. Her hip bumps into the console, and he's steadying---no he's using her momentum against her to spin her towards the rotor. He's tight behind her, his hips pressing into her ass. She's forced to bend over, she throws her arms out in front of her to support her upper body, and stop her face from smashing into the controls.

"Doctor, I always knew you had it into you," she begins to intone before he thrusts his hips into her, forcing her to gasp. He pulls her wrists together behind her back, half pulling her up as he bites and licks his way up her neck.

"If you insist on being here I'd prefer you to not talk." He commands before he begins pressing an open mouthed kiss to her jaw.

She rolls her hips into his groin, and moans when she feels his hardness pressed back into her. Her wrists ache as his grip tightens, and she hadn't realized she wanted this until this moment. Her Doctor, commanding, and brutal and _punishing_.

"And your preferences are my top priority," she purrs. Before smashing the back of her head into his nose. The whip crack of contact barely heard over the Doctor's roar of anger.

He clutches his nose gingerly as he backs up into the wall. Grimacing at the trickle of blood now running over his lips.

"What the fuck?" He grinds out before the Mistress begins giggling delightedly.

"Your face right now! Classic," she winks while bounding towards him. "You come at me all oncoming storm. Like you know rage. Like you," she jabs him with a finger, "know darkness?" Her eyes unhinged and unblinking. "I am your Mistress. Your pain is mine to inflict." She kisses the corner of his mouth chastely. His blood leaving a stain on her cheek as she steps away from him.

"We'll talk when you can behave yourself." She steps through the Tardis doors without a backward glance.

The Doctor stares after her for a moment. He needs to stop the bleeding. He marches towards the wardrobe. There's a particularly ugly scarf he feels keen on ruining.


	2. Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please, do tell me about your dream. Nothing could possibly be more interesting than whatever disgusting description you're about to pervert the room with."

"They're burnt." The Doctor muttered as Missy placed the platter of burnt breakfast in front him with a flourish. She tucked herself neatly into her chair across from him and began to fill his plate.

"Oh I'm ever so sorry dear. You know how distracted I get when I'm slaving over a hot stove for you." Her eyes were large with fake shame. 

She shoveled somehow burnt and soggy eggs on top of his blackened pancakes. Before finishing the plate off with the thinnest tiniest dribble of syrup.

"You know why I was distracted?" She stage-whispered at him. 

He folded his arms while scanning the ‘meal’ before him, maybe something accidentally edible had made it to the table. 

"I was so distracted," she raised her voice. "Because I was remembering a dream I had last night."

He sipped at the tepid tea she had placed before him. It was both too milky and oddly floral. He suspected she'd dumped a bowl of potpourri into the kettle. He’d walked into the kitchen this morning to find Missy. Cooking. In his Tardis, which had let her in without him knowing. Again.

It’d been several months since he’d last seen her. He’d calmed down a bit from losing Clara. From going home. When he walked in on Missy, the apparent picture of domesticity, he’d let her carry on because of his shame at how he’d, well, reacted to her before. He was trying his best to be The Doctor, and letting her incite his worst impulses was something he should have gotten over a long time ago.

She sharply kicked his shin under the table to recapture his attention. His eyebrows knitted in pain as he winced. 

"Sorry," she muttered in the least apologetic tone she could muster.

He sighed while he continued to massage his now bruising leg. "Please, do tell me about your dream. Nothing could possibly be more interesting than whatever disgusting description you're about to pervert the room with."

"Perversion dear? Don't speak ill of your naughty little self."

She began to methodically tear her pancakes into shreds between well lacquered nails. “I dreamt that I was in some quarry, some anonymous dusty backwater planet that seemed familiar. And I was lounging on this giant pyre, and I could smell that delicious burning smell. And I was starting to feel really toasty when I glanced over my shoulder and saw you.”

She paused to look him in the eyes, there was a challenge in her gaze and he felt like he would not like where this story was going. 

“So there you are, and you’re yelling something, but I can’t hear you over the roar of the fire. And the flames have started burning my clothes away, and its searing and sharp, and exquisite. My skin crackling and peeling, and then you’re climbing the pyre, trying to drag my burning body off the inferno and you’re burning too.” Her voice is a low whisper as she apparently finishes her little diatribe. She licks the top row of her teeth.

“So what do you think it means?” Her eyes wide as she leans in. He can usually tell what she’s playing at, no matter how obtuse he pretends to be. But this seems too…

“It means that you recognize this a toxic relationship that will ultimately destroy us both?” He questions, he doesn’t think she would willfully admit that to him, let alone herself.

She gasps at his words. “No no no. It means that you can’t help yourself when it comes to me. You.” She points a finger at him. “Are utterly devoted to me. Besotted even. It’s adorable that you still have this little puppy crush on me after all this time.” She claps her hands together, delighted with herself as usual.

“Really? That’s what you got from that? Between the two of us we probably speak about a billion languages and we can never seem to understand each other.” He gives up on trying to find anything on the table that isn’t going to lead to food poisoning and takes a sip of water. Wonderful, it’s luke-warm and has bits floating in it.

“So dramatic as usual my Doctor.” She stands and begins scooping up plates from the table before she launches them into the sink. She shrieks as the china smashes and breaks against the metal basin. 

“Can’t you learn to comport yourself like an adult?” She tosses the teapot across the room and it shatters everywhere. It’s a real pity, he’d gotten that one from Mary Shelley after he’d helped her out of a jam with a real monster once.

“You cooked dear, why don’t you let me clean up?” He says with false bright-ness. Maybe he can save some of the good dishes.

“Finally he talks some sense.” She throws her hands up. “I’ve really got to get going anyhow. Planning a small uprising.” She shrugs as if this is everyday business, though for it is. 

“Am I going to have to come after you? Set thing to rights?” He walks over to her, his shoes sticking to floor where she’d spilt syrup and hadn’t bothered with cleaning it up.

“No no, this is purely a me-thing.” She steps up to him and places her hands on his lapels. He has to force himself to still. Fights that nervous thrill that she has always been able to illicit. 

She smirks that annoying I know what I’m doing to you smirk. And softly presses her lips to his cheek. He braces himself for whatever assault is coming.

Then she steps back and is out the kitchen door with a wave. 

He misses her immediately. He feels like clouds have just drifted across the sun. A deep shame burns though him as she stoops to start picking up the larger pieces of china up off the floor. 

The Doctor likes monsters. That’s why he always goes and looks for them. But usually the best part is defeating them. Not willfully walking into their trap. 

He needs to have a talk with the Tardis. He can’t let himself start looking forward to Missy’s visits. He picks up a plate and throws it into the sink as well. Let’s himself enjoy the smash. Tells himself it’s okay to indulge his darker urges if he is alone.


	3. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wind howled and raged, Missy turned, as if feeling his gaze. A bright smile twisting her red lips, silouhetted in chaos. God, she was going to be insufferably pleased with herself at his arrival.

A tropical paradise during a typhoon. How perfectly her.

 

The Doctor stood on the edge of a covered boardwalk, as holiday makers, and souvenir peddlers, dashed for cover from the crashing surf. Sheets of rain pounded the sand into slurry, the former laughing and shrieking in drunken excitement. It wasn't his usual pit stop, no apparent danger, even from the storm, which if he could remember correctly, would pass without damage. It might ruin a few days of sun seekers vacation, but he doubted if so much as a palm tree would topple over.

 

But The Mistress had beckoned him to this little out of the way moon, and she was enough of a threat to make him worry for every life from in the system.

 

He checked the psychic paper again as he ducked under an awning to avoid a group of drunk boys singing some lewd song. Ballybog Beach, 7/7/2354 dusk, don't forget your swim trunks. 

 

He sighed with exasperation. As if he was about to go on a merry jaunt with a murderous timelord who was likely planning to slaughter the vacationing population just to get a rise out of him.

 

He flicked open his sonic and scanned again for anything out of the ordinary, anything suspiciously bomb-like, or poison gas containing, or with the mind altering, face melting properties. The scan turned up nothing which did little to reassure him. The Mistress did not do subtlety.

 

He walked aways down the stretch of uneven planks, the crowd had thinned considerably as the wind had picked up. He mentally kicked himself for even bothering to indulge her mad whims, he'd surely regret whatever she had planned for him, but...he'd been alone. Longer than he usually was, Clara would have been disappointed, he imagined, vaguely, the haze of companionship and sorrow that surrounded his thoughts whenever they turned to her had shrouded his interactions with every humanoid he'd encountered since. He wasn't ready to go there yet.

 

So Missy. Stopping his closest enemy from whatever nefarious scheme she was up to felt oddly uplifting. The familiar and the adrenaline for danger intermingling in a comforting tingle in his mind.

 

Speak of the devil herself. The Doctor had wandered to the edge of the pier. A lone figure stood at the end, a shapely black dress swirling in the winds, as gusts of surf sprayed onto the deck. The wind howled and raged, Missy turned, as if feeling his gaze. A bright smile twisting her red lips, silouhetted in chaos. God, she was going to be insufferably pleased with herself at his arrival.

 

She sashayed towards him, seemingly oblivious to the storm raging in the sky above, wet tendrils of her hair dancing in the wind. Her dress slick with spray billowing out from its high front slit as her pale legs walked leisurely towards him. 

 

"You made it!" She cackled as she reached for his crooked elbow. He pulled away and she pouted in disdain. "Now, is that anyway to treat you're girlfriend after she's treated you to such a lovely holiday?" she gestured grandly.

 

"You are not my girlfriend. And I wouldn't say a tropical island during a typhoon was a treat." He growled with more menace than he really meant.

 

She put her hands on hips, in a mockery of stern nanny. "The beauty of the topics, the danger of the storm, all the pretty young 20-somethings running around. This is practically your wet dream!" She winked as she vainly reached for his hand again.

 

The rain was starting to pelt them in earnest know, his velvet coat already soaked through. "Can you just tell me whatever it is you're plotting so I can, once again, defeat you and go have a nice hot cuppa in peace?" He shrugged, as he started to head back towards the resorts away from the shoreline. He hoped one of them had dry-cleaning for his coat, he'd never been particularly good at laundry.

 

She opened her eyes wide in fake astonishment as she began to march off towards a large and gaudy resort directly ahead of him. "Me? Plot? Oh no Doctor, I plan. And the next step is to get just blotto with an old, old friend." She marched on.

 

The Doctor hesitated a moment, he could shrug off her insufferable plan. Fly away somewhere sensible. Check up on Martha Jones, and have some sanity in his life. He watched as The Mistress gleefully skipped up the palatial steps and disappeared through heavy oak doors. He gathered himself and ran out of the rain after her. When had he ever been one for sanity?

 

*  
Oh gods the punch had had pears in it. The Doctor was swaying wildly in his seat. That was her dastardly plan! Poison him with disgusting secret pears! "You evil harpy," he said perhaps a little too loudly as the other hotel guests in the bar looked curiously up at the pair. "You tricked me into ingesting pears, by hiding them in brandy and a, uh, variety of citrus fruits!" he exclaimed. The Mistress cackled wildly while finishing her sixth or seventh bowl of overly sweet punch. 

 

"Aha! You've found me out! Next I'm going to slip kale into your chips." She whispered conspiratorially as she slipped her foot up his knee. He half-heartedly batted her away, giving up when she propped both delicate feet into his lap. Her toes flexing mischievously into his thighs.

 

"Oh Doctor, my plan is well into motion. Everything going just splendidly. Just keep enjoying yourself, as you always do." She nodded at him with conviction.

 

"Enjoying myself? Really you think that I'm here because I enjoy the madness and cruelty you insist on involving me in?" He grabbed her right foot to stop its upward wandering. "I'm here because I don't want you to murder anymore innocent people just to get my attention."

 

"Innocent people Doctor? Never met one." The lights of the resort flickered ominously as she leered at him, glancing pointedly at his hand that was now thoughtlessly rubbing small circles up her calf. There was a loud crash of thunder, and the lights went out. They were in complete darkness for one long beat. The Doctor aware of her double heartbeat beneath his fingertips, before the low glow of emergency lights flickered on. The hotel staff began serving free drinks to happy, and now distracted patrons.

 

"Come on," Missy offered her hand to him, suddenly standing beside him, "lets go up to the suite shall we?"

 

"Why should I follow you anywhere?" he offered his token resistance, sloppy getting to his feet. She smiled as she tucked her elbow into his arm, snuggling into his side as he leaned into her for support. 

 

"Because how will you stop me from killing every living thing on this rock? She whispered into his ear before gently biting down on the lobe. The Doctor shivered.

 

*  
The suite was a lurid pink monstrosity. Pink settee, pink drapes, and massive ridiculous pink clamshell bed. The Mistress was pulling down the zipper of her long black dress and stepping leisurely out of the garment before The Doctor had noticed what she was doing. "What are you doing?" He stuttered dumbly, as he felt his cheeks burn as he caught a glimpse or her matching pink undergarments.

 

"Well I'm all wet dear," she whispered in what she surely must have thought was seductive, "wouldn't want to catch my death now would I?” She turned and reached for the lapels of his coat, but he pulled back from her before she could get her hands on him. She tutted and rolled her eyes.

 

"Suit yourself." She tsked as she slipped into what must be the en-suite. The Doctor shrugged out of his coat, he was wet, and cold. And nervous as hell he realized. He cast around for something to distract him and noticed a large machine under a glass dome, its gears turning, various parts moving rhythmically. He reached to remove the protective barrier encasing it.

 

"Aha!" The Mistress returned in a pink robe, and tossed a matching one to him. "That's mine dear. We wouldn't want you to press the wrong button and go blowing a hole in this moon." She slinked over to him removing the glass dome herself. The Doctor slipped the robe on, more for the protection it leant him, than for warmth.

 

Missy began to press a sequence into the control pad, and then drew his attention to the window. Lightning struck, and thunder followed in an obvious pattern. Mary had a little lamb.

 

"The Storm. You." He said, inebriation slipping away, the familiar rage she endeared in him returning, blowing away any warm feelings, any nostalgia he thought bitterly, away.

 

"I thought it would be romantic," she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like picking up a bottle of wine.

 

"It's dangerous, thoughtless." He began to shrug out of the pink robe. He wasn't going to keep indulging her, he should learn, for once, that she wasn't a cure for his loneliness. He had to stop being such a selfish, cowardly old man.

 

She tugged on his elbow to stop him. "Oh don't be so dramatic." she sighed through real annoyance, stamping her foot like a child.

 

"I'm not being dramatic, people could get hurt." He folded his jacket over his arm.

 

"People always get hurt!" she tossed up her hands as if he was being particularly thick. "That's what you like about them. If they didn't get hurt, then they wouldn't need you to save them." She sneered at him triumphantly. 

 

He paused, a kind of slow realization coming over him. "Is that why," he pushed a breath out slowly. "Is that why you think I won't travel with you? Because you don't need saving?"

 

"Well it's obvious isn't it?" She shrugged carelessly. She fiddled with the sash on her robe. "I won't get lost, or die, or burn or age, or...leave you." She huffed. "That must seem boring to you." She turned away from him. She replaced the glass dome on the machine. The storm raged on.

 

The Doctor stood there. Coat over his arm. Immobile. Staring at her sharp profile against the window. This version of her. More vulnerable than she'd been in, well, ever he realized. Even when they were boys she'd always been braver, tougher, surer of herself than he. 

 

The Doctor sighed, he rubbed a tired hand over his face. After all this time she'd grown lonely, the loneliness that comes with their kind of immortality. She'd called his friends mayflies and she hadn't been wrong.

 

"Are you storming out in a sense of mis-guided righteousness? Because I'd actually like to go to bed." She tossed out, though her anger was real. 

 

How much longer were they going to fundamentally misunderstand each other? How much longer was he going to run away from the only other being in the universe like him? 

 

He put his coat back on the chair. He walked up behind her, and she pretended to ignore him. He cautiously put a hand on her shoulder. He hadn't touched anyone in a long time.

 

"I'm actually, actually quite tired, you know? Would it be alright if I had a quick kip too?" Had he always been this awkward? He shuffled his feet nervously.

 

She whirled around, caught the wrist of his retreating hand. "Are you saying you want to sleep with me Doctor?" She purred, theatrics returning.

 

He made his eyebrows as stern as possible. "Sleep," he enunciated deliberately, "Yes."

 

She was dragging him toward the monstrosity of a bed before he'd finished the word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *End of Part 1*


	4. The Storm pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Theta," she pulled his old nick name from her lips like she was sucking the marrow out of his bones. "When have I ever broken a promise to you?"

*  
He'd tried to make a barrier between them of the little pearl-like throw pillows but with every dip and move they'd rolled off the bed like the best of his intentions. She'd removed her robe before slipping between the silk sheets, and after he'd joined her she'd made a show of slipping off her pale pink bra and panties and throwing them onto his side of the bed. She'd shrugged her pale shoulder, and muttered something about sleeping in the nude being healthy. He wasn't certain exactly as the brandy punch, and the silk sheets, and the patter of rain, and her pale, pale neck kept claiming his attention.

 

He'd remained, staunchly and uncomfortably, clothed. His shirt buttons digging into his neck with every now laboured breath. His pants bunching around his calves and making his feet go numb. He felt her gaze on him, and knew that she knew that he knew, that she knew, he was awake.

 

"You seem a tad uncomfortable." She all but whispered, but in their proximity the sound still startled him.

 

"I'm fine thank you." He replied curtly, attempting to turn away from her, but found his legs tangled in the mess that was his trousers.

 

He could feel her rolling her eyes, a little puff of air against his skin, as she sighed. "Would it help if I promised not to take your virtue? Again I mean." She smoothed the sheet between them, pulling it taught over her form. The rise and dip of her hip sharp like steel under the silk.

 

"As if I could trust you." He stated, more to himself than her.

 

She rolled unto her back. Arms behind head. Breasts dangerously close to being exposed. The master had always been hypnotic, manipulative, but now she'd learned seduction. The Doctor had been pretty before, he knew how easy it was to flirt, and coerce, and tame without even meaning to.

 

"Theta," she pulled his old nick name from her lips like she was sucking the marrow out of his bones. "When have I ever broken a promise to you?"

 

He felt compelled to look at her then. Into those blue eyes, eyes more familiar to him than his own. Her sincerity was startling. Her face as open as it had been in the graveyard. The centuries hadn't changed her as such. He glanced at the storm machine in the corner, before flitting back to her piercing gaze. Time had brought them back to themselves.

 

He very much wanted to kiss her. His gaze slipped to her lips. The red she'd painted it with faded and blurred. He pulled his eyes back to hers.

 

Her gaze was heavy and lidded, and he didn't think either drew breath for a very long time.

 

"Well good night!" She chirped, before turning her back to him in a flourish. "Don't worry Doctor, I wouldn't so much as steal a kiss from you," she tossed over her shoulder. "Between the two of us, you were always the thief."

 

The Doctor laboriously pushed out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. If one thing had remained the same over the centuries of their friendship? It was that The Master had always been a bitch.

 

*

 

He'd awaken again, some bad/good dream, of old friends lost pulling at his consciousness. He'd kicked off his trousers at some point and admitted defeat when he pulled his mostly unbuttoned shirt over his head and tossed it fitfully to the floor. Missy slept undisturbed as she had for the past few hours.

 

The Doctor stared at her storm maker machine again. Its cyclical light pattern obviously some sort of timer. He estimated that one last thunderous display of unseasonal weather would burst forth before morning. The words storm of the century floated in his mind, he dimly recalled about this tropical man-made paradise. Known for it's sun, and beauty for all 455 days of its year. They had boasted over twelve rainless years, of course that was a record Missy would want to tarnish.

 

He punched his pillow back into shape. Flopping about as some loose feathers escaped and tickled his nose.

 

"Must you be so graceless," Missy breathed out before turning to him. Her hair was mussed around her face, and she moved with the languid fluidity of the recently asleep.

 

He attempted to still his restless limbs, with little success. "Sorry, just, getting comfortable." he muttered to the ceiling. 

 

"I very much doubt that." she placed a cool palm on his chest, stilling him. "Just stop fighting so hard," she intoned. He wondered to just what, exactly, she was referring.

 

She rose slightly, placing her other hand on his chest as well. Looming above him. She was naked, but her form was hidden by the darkness of the room. She slipped a cool leg between his, kicking his ankles apart. He gripped the sheet in balled fists as she straddled him. Hovering above him, just out of reach.

 

"How long have we been playing this game Doctor?" she whispered. Not touching him where either of them really wanted, palms planted on both his hearts.

 

"What game exactly---" She reared back and slapped him across his cheek. Red blooming across his vision.

 

He reached up and grabbed both her wrists. Pulled her down onto him. Her breasts mashed into his chest. Her knees gripping his thighs. He could feel her heat pressed into his stomach. Felt himself responding. His length pressing into her backside.

 

"What is wrong with you?" he yelled hoarsely, barely above the roar of the last great swell of the storm around them.

 

"The exact same thing that's wrong with you," she hissed. Sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. Tugging experimentally at her caught wrists.

 

He'd had enough. He thrust his hips into her thighs, and flipped her beneath him. She opened her legs wantonly as he pulled her arms above her head. "Doctor, how would your pets feel if they saw you now?" she smiled.

 

He answered her by claiming her mouth with his own. His lips licking hers apart, his teeth tugging her bottom lip, teasing. He thrust his tongue into her mouth without the slightest provocation. Stroked the length of her own. He pushed her legs further apart with his knees and ground himself into her entrance. Her wetness surprising him. She was drenched. He felt her nipples, taught, poking into his chest, he was crushing her slowly, and she was moaning into him.

Rasillion she tasted good, she felt better. Little mewling sounds of frustration as he rhythmically ground himself between her legs, spreading her wetness between them. She was still testing his grip, realizing futilely that she couldn't flip them.  
"Stop fighting so hard." he pulled back, commanding. "Then maybe we could both win."

 

She nodded soberly. Her wrists slack, and he let go. Ran his hands down her sides, and over her breasts, pressing a kiss to both. His hands slipped around her back. His length slipping into her folds as her arms wound around him. They stared hard into each other. Lifetimes flickering and dying between them, as he finally slipped into her.

 

She clawed at his back as a low moan escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes at the sudden rush of completeness. She panted yes, yes, yes, as he set an old rhythm for them with his thrusts. The oldest dance in the universe.

 

He pressed his lips to her neck, breathing in the scent of Missy, Mistress, Master, lover, friend, and enemy enveloped him, he felt like dying as he sunk into her over and over. He felt that charge of regeneration, of newness and unexpected mystery, and every remembered moment of himself flooded through unused synapses in his brain.

 

She clawed longs marks into his back, consistent and as sharp as ever, and she cursed loud, and competitive with the storm. Their pulses hammering a beat long forgotten between them. He reached a hand between them, rubbing methodically at her clit. He wanted her to finish first, wanted to be the one that brought her there, wanted her to come undone because of him.

 

She yelped as he pushed roughly into her, her eyes closing involuntarily, as she primly pressed her forehead again his own.

 

And oh. Yesssss. His mind not pressing but suddenly in her own. Her body and his no longer separate but one, and together, and both and apart. Fire rupturing from his clit, as her cock slammed into his cunt, and her chest hair, scratched her chest and her will and his need, and them both falling dangerously. Crashing into each other in eternal spinning thunderous surrender and release.

 

The rain outside started to abate.

 

*

 

He awoke. Surprisingly sore, and unsurprisingly alone. Sheets damp with fluid and sweat, a pink dawn struggling to break. 

 

Her underwear and her machine absent as well. Though he did note a hefty bill placed on his bedside. A small note on the hotels stationary placed on top. He reached for it before he thought better of it.

 

Call it a draw. ---M

 

The Doctor sat up, not feeling lonely, as such, but empty, drained, as the light of the dawn began to warm the suite. He watched for a quite awhile as the sun climbed into the sky.


	5. Detained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s trying to be good, but she’s so much better at being bad.

Missy is sprawled on the piano, intentional, languid, inviting and repelling him at the same time. 

She’s trying to be good, but she’s so much better at being bad.

“I’ve brought waffles and wantons, I dunno, I was feeling Seussian,” The Doctor chirps. Locking and securing the vault’s doors before putting his burdens down.

“Sounds yummy...or disgusting, either will do.” She doesn’t raise her voice even though she’s across the room, she knows he’s straining to hear every word she’s willing to dribble out for him. The Doctor hugs the wall in a manouever that he knows is pathetic, but it’s safe and he’s long past being embarrassed in front of her. 

“Well. Anything to break up the boredom right?” He digs the plastic cutlery out of the bag, it’s artificially warm from the heat of the food containers and he tries latch onto the sensation. Tries to enjoy the warm smoothness of the plastic instead of yearning for warm skin.

She’s staring up at the ceiling. She’s been quiet of late, the last 18 months or so. Ruminating. The Doctor’s not used to a Master so introspective. It sets his teeth on edge.

He slips into his chair. Grooved to his body over time, so much and so little between them. She slides off the piano, skirts catching on the lip, the long line of her legs revealed. Gods she has good legs this time. Her feet pad softly across the floor, stealth is second nature to her. You will know the Master is there when the Master wants you to, not before.

She perches on his arm chair. She peers over his shoulder as he unwraps the food. He can feel her eyes on him, and he pretends to find the styrofoam container difficult to open, well sure, it tears in his fumbling hands when she leans in a little further. Her perfume suddenly wafting into his notice, cloying and heady, and overwhelming. But honestly, he’s fine. It’s just her toying with him. And he understands. The Master of all, suddenly with a disciple of one. It’s a miracle she hasn’t killed them both yet.

“The wontons look like little brains,” she almost hums into his ear. “I like that.” She reaches over his shoulder, dips her hand into the scalding broth and pops one of the dough “brains” in her mouth. She makes a pleased little noise as her eyes close. And The Doctor has to fight with himself not to reach to out and stroke the soft skin of her exposed neck.

Timelord’s and necks, she’s unbuttoned her collar. He knows that she knows, that he knows, exactly what she’s doing. It doesn’t stop him from wanting her. He turns his gaze to fall on her profile. Decides it's safer to focus on her mouth. He immediately regrets his decision. She’s sucking her bottom lip, lets it pop back out red and swollen. She smirks in the way only sore winners do.

The Doctor is well and truly fucked.

“Theeeettaaa...” She purrs, lets her eyelashes flutter at him. She holds her body unnaturally still, trying not startle him.

It doesn’t work. He stands abruptly and grabs the two plates, two forks, and the special knives that can’t cut anything alive. He puts them on the small table and sits in the chair slowly. He’s trying to be reasonable with himself. He sees Nardole’s disapproving grimace in his mind. He knows, he knows. He shakes his head.

“Mistress, come eat.” He’s a grown-up, she’s well...mature certainly. He’s trying to help her be good. The least she can do is help him too.

The Mistress sits in the opposite chair. “I feel a lecture coming on,” she rolls her eyes.

“Missy please,” she’s tearing one of waffles to pieces in her hands. He wonders if she’s imaging his throat.

“Mimmy pwease,” she mocks with a pout. “We'll go on, spank me.” She leers.

“I’m not denying---”

“--that’s exactly what you’re doing!” She lurches out the chair and towards the piano bench, turning her back to him.

“---I’m not denying that I want you.” He’s quiet, but he’s looking at her. She turns around, insufferable smile on her lips.

“Oh Doctor, do go on,” she leans in expectantly.

He rubs his hands over his eyes, god why did he have to enjoy this? It was humiliating how much he revealed in her petulance, how much her insolence charmed him. 

“Missy, I’m not going to get into our long, and, ahem,” he adjusted his trousers, “graphic,” she clapped excitedly at that, “history. We can not resume a physical relationship.” He placed his clasped hands on the table.

“Well that’s moronic,” she sighed. “I think a good fuck is exactly what we need.”

His knee jerked and hit the table. He unclasped his hands, smoothed them over the grain of the table to calm himself. It was not helping. “Missy I'm trying to help you, and you may not have noticed but the stakes, for me at least, are quite high.” He looked at her. “I want this to work.” 

She got up off the piano, “and I don’t? I’ve just been casually hanging out with you in this vault for decades because what else do I have to do? I think I’ve proven my commitment.” She snapped. She began circling the piano. The Doctor thought it looked like predatory stalking.

“That's not what I---,” she turned sharply on her heel. Sat heavily in his arm chair, threw her legs over one arm. Looked pointedly at the wall away from him. “---meant. I mean I don’t want to endanger the work you’ve done. The trust we’ve built.” She still wasn’t looking at him. 

“Oh yes a quick disappointing shag with you probably does turn most girls evil.” He rolled his eyes, this conversation was definitely helping to calm his libido. That was a workable plan, Missy would just have to annoy the lust out of him.

He got tiredly to his feet. Leaving her to stew in disappointment would not do either of them any favours. He walked over to her, knelt down in front of the chair. Tried to catch her eye. “Missy please.” He reached for her dangling hand, grasped it. She didn’t pull away.

“Missy please,” she whispered to herself. And then, “Is it always going to be this hard? Between us?” She looked at him from the corner of her eye.

The Doctor thought for a moment. Of their long history, of every blow she’d ever laid out for him. Of every tear he’d shed over her. 

“Did you really just ask if it was hard?” He tossed to her, eyebrows waggling.

She pauses and then shrieks with mirth. Drags a hand over her face. Looks at him with a warmth she usually tries to hide. 

And they are friends again, and always.

She sits down across from him at the small table and they eat their wontons and dip their waffles in the broth and argue about the merits of Edison versus Tesla, and it's disgusting and wonderful.


End file.
